Daggers and Men's Smiles Read Online Free PDF Page B

and lyricism and tenderness. Like the perfect love affair. Only, unlike love affairs, the mood created was constant, the same perfection when played for the umpteenth time. Now, that was commitment. And it was a commitment devoutly to be wished, of which he was not afraid.
    Oh lady, be good to me .
    The music continued to play in his head, long after he had gone to bed. Finally, sleep came.
    * * *
    It was barely light when Moretti was awakened by the persistent ringing of his bedside phone. It was the desk-sergeant from Hospital Lane.
    â€œSorry to wake you at this hour sir —”
    â€œWhat hour is it?” Moretti surfaced groggily through the layers of sleep.
    â€œSix-thirty. But it’s the film people out at Ste. Madeleine Manor and you’re down on my sheet as the one to call. There’s been some sort of accident. Nasty business.”
    â€œWas it a human target this time?”
    â€œOh yes.” Moretti could hear the surprise in the officer’s voice. “It’s the location manager. Albarosa. Italian.” And, feeling it necessary to make the message even clearer to Moretti’s sleep-addled brain, he added, “He’s dead, Guv.”

September 16th
    The limousine wound its way through the quiet early morning lanes southwest of the capital, St. Peter Port, making its way to the parish of St. Andrew’s. Even before Guernsey was divided into parishes, the island was separated into fiefs, holdovers from the ancient feudal system, in which tenants owed allegiance to the local seigneur. Many of the old customs were long gone, as were the ancient fiefdoms, of which the Manoir Ste. Madeleine had been one.
    On an island the size of Guernsey the past and present were often juxtaposed with almost jolting speed. The driver made his way past one of the smaller former fiefdoms, the Manor of Ste. Hélène, now in private hands like the Manoir Ste. Madeleine, and on past St. Andrew’s Church, carefully restored to its twelfth-century self. Hardly past the squat spire and castellations of the old church, then they were crossing the Candie Road, close to the site of the vast German underground hospital.
    â€œThe underground hospital’s over in that direction,” said the driver, Tom Dorey, a local assigned to transport the Ensors. Before Sydney could make any response, Gilbert surfaced from a fitful doze for his usual grumble.
    â€œGetting up at this hour is insanity. If they weren’t paying me big bucks I wouldn’t be doing this, and the way I feel I will never repeat the experience.”
    â€œThe way you feel now has nothing to do with the hour. It’s the booze, honey.”
    â€œBullshit. My body and my inspiration purr along beatifically when they’re well-oiled with Guinness and Glenfiddich. They grind to a sickening halt when confronted with the fucking light of dawn.”
    Impassively, Tom Dorey negotiated the sharp bend that preceded the gates of the manor. He had by now got used to his passenger’s tongue, and could restrain the audible intake of breath that had been his original reaction.
    â€œYou don’t have to do this too often, do you?” observed Sydney. “You only have to be in early today because Monty Lord asked for a script meeting.”
    â€œJesus wept — or he would have done if he was the writer on this movie. It’s not as if I were responsible for most of the script — Monty put his Hollywood hotshots onto that — but now he’s farting about with the bloody plot line.”
    â€œWell, they do that, movie people, don’t they? What is he changing?”
    â€œDon’t know the details yet, but it seems he wants to add another strand to the story, which’ll completely alter the balance of the plot — and Bianchi’s going along with it. He’s building up one of the minor characters — the countess.”
    â€œIs the actress who’s playing the countess his